Love Is On The Way
by CatalynMJ88
Summary: The First Wives' Club fic. It's 1998, and Bill and Elise just might be headed for a reconciliation... if Bill's ego and Elise's strong and independent friends don't get in the way. Just for fun; not exactly sure where the story will go.
1. Mysteriously Generous

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The First Wives' Club, or any of the actors who portrayed characters in this ficlet *le sigh* or any of the music for that matter… Alrighty then! New movie, new genre, I figured I'd give it a shot. Enjoy. :-)

**I. Mysteriously Generous**

_Elise (Saturday, March 7, 1998)_

After Bill, I casually dated a couple of guys I met through theater productions. Brenda called them all "toddlers" when she thought I wasn't listening. Okay, I'll admit- none of them was over thirty-five. But you try finding a straight, single man my own age in the theater. And one who's _not_ an egotistical philanderer? Fat chance.

I certainly still have the looks to attract younger guys. But it's turned out to be a mixed blessing. They're drawn in like flies to honey, and then they find out who I really am and act like I somehow bewitched them. As soon as I talk about being sober for over two years and counting, or my concern for helping women escape and rise above abusive relationships, all of a sudden it's "Why're you being such a downer?" or "You sound just like my mom!" It's like I peeled off a suit made of a young virgin's skin and revealed that underneath, I'm actually the crypt keeper.

So I've gone solo for about a year now. It gives me more time and energy for my work, and my friends. Annie and Brenda routinely alternate between inspiring me and cracking me up- but especially Annie. She'll actually sing "You Don't Own Me" by herself now, at least in front of just Brenda and me. Seems like her catchphrase these days is "Oh, who needs men?" Her daughter Chris certainly doesn't. Many of the women who come to the Center would be better off without theirs. And she and I don't need men, either…

Even if sometimes, in the middle of the night, even the most fulfilling single life is just a little bit lonely.

Bill's last monthly check for the Center was twice what I ask of him. And now, at the Center's two-year anniversary gala, I see him sitting alone at a corner table. I've invited him to all our main events, (it only seems right, since he helps fund the place,) but this is the first time he's bothered to show up since the opening gala.

He sits with his arms crossed, wearing a slight scowl. I delight in the little changes that time brings, but that the makeup artists at _Entertainment Tonight _try so hard to hide. That line above his brows when he's lost in thought- it's a little deeper than I remember. His curly hair is somewhat grayer.

Brenda sits beside me and offers me a virgin margarita. "You still think he's kinda cute, don'tcha?" she teases.

I just shrug, but that's enough to make her nudge me and giggle. You could say Brenda's the romantic of our trio. After all, she's the one who can freely use the coveted R-word: _reconciliation._

Brenda gestures towards Bill, (not as subtly as I would have liked,) and mutters, "So, did somebody die or something?"

She's referring to Bill's attire: black dress jeans and a black sweater. "I think he's just going for the 'beat poet' look," I joke.

"Well it ain't working. Guys in all black only look like beat poets if they're short and skinny. Otherwise they just look like bodyguards… Not that I'm complaining…"

I think to myself: _My quiet, bespectacled Bill… playing a bodyguard? Maybe opposite me, playing a queen of some obscure little country, in need of his services to avoid getting kidnapped… _The brief movie-fantasy sends a pleasant shiver through me. Just then, Bill glimpses us watching him. Brenda smiles and waves; I give her a death glare.

"Gosh, could you two be any more _obvious_?" Annie comes and stands in the middle of our sightline of Bill, with her hands on her hips.

"Hello, buzzkill," chirps Brenda. "Hey, did I tell you guys that Morty sold Bill his Lamborghini back?" Annie clucks in disapproval as she pulls up a chair. As Brenda relishes the moment, I stare her down, willing her to spill."Morty didn't like the car all that much, said it reminded him of that… that…" She rolls her eyes. "What was that snotty little twig's name again?"

"Shelly," Annie and I say in unison. We know Brenda didn't really forget the name; she just likes to pretend she did.

"Yeah, her," Brenda scoffs. "Anyway, Morty calls up Bill before calling the dealer, you know, for courtesy's sake. And Bill offers him whatever the dealer'll give him, plus ten percent. Morty said he didn't need the extra, but Bill insisted. Seems like he's swimmin in dough since his last movie." She shrugs.

For some reason this makes my heart sink. "Oh, so _that _explains the check…"

"What check?" Annie demands. Brenda's eyebrows shoot up into her bangs.

I sigh. "His last check to the Cynthia Swann Griffin Crisis Center was for half a million dollars." Annie gasps. "I was gonna go talk to him," I continue. "You know, thank him for his generosity, maybe ask him what prompted it…"

"Oh you should," Brenda breathes excitedly.

"No, you shouldn't!" squeaks Annie. I swear, these two are like the shoulder-angel and shoulder-demon you see in cartoons. Only I'm not sure which is which. "Clearly you're still attracted to him, and he's the _ex_," she hisses. "No good can come of this!"

"_No _good?" Brenda asks pointedly.

Annie blushes. "Well, you and Morty... I'm sorry Brenda, but… you two are _very _lucky. You're not exactly a typical case."

Brenda is wry. "You hear that, Elise? This one's tryin to tell me I'm abnormal."

"Atypical." Annie is prim, indignant. "There's a difference." Then she notices me still gazing across the wicker tables, towards the mysteriously generous man in black. "Elise, you can't go over there, not if you're going with unresolved issues and expectations. It makes you vulnerable to his tricks."

"No, it made _you _vulnerable to _Aaron's _tricks." Brenda mimics Annie: "There's a difference."

I see a storm brewing. To distract Annie, I point out, "Well, aren't you the one who said Bill's a saint?"

"Legally, yes. Psychologically?" she smirks. "I don't think so. He's self-centered and needy and…"

I tune her out. _And kind and funny and creative… and appears to have come alone…_ I get up and straighten my ball gown. "Look, I'm going over there, just so _you two_ can stop arguing over whether I should."

As I make my way through a maze of tables, trembling in my heels but holding my head high, I hear Brenda's smug pronouncement: "Ha! I win."


	2. Just the Way You Are

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. Enjoy the story. :-)

**II. Just the Way You Are**

_Bill_

It's a nice party, with a DJ, an expansive buffet, and a free and happy mingling of New York high society and Cynthia Swann Griffin Center clients. I'm getting shy and self-conscious, even though no one seems to notice me sitting here, hiding by a Roman column. I feel slightly pathetic… and I blame Shelly.

I just wanted someone with Elise's sophisticated tastes and Phoebe's youthful vigor. (Well, not _quite _as young as Phoebe…) Instead I ended up with a vindictive little leech who tried to suck me dry. It wasn't just using my money to fund her "classic, eternal good taste." She nitpicked me to death. _Bill, when are you going to dye your hair, lose ten pounds, do something about those fine lines, get rid of those ratty old jeans and sweatshirts…?_

At first I'd give in to her flirtatious sulking, her petty games to get her way. After a while, I became nonresponsive, and she upped the ante. _I'm not going to let you sit around and let yourself go while I do all the work to make us perfect, _she lectured._ Please, Bill. I am not Elise!_

No, she certainly wasn't.

The night that I finally told her to get out, she was trashed. Maybe not the best timing, on my part, but I'm not exactly known for skillful breakups… Anyway, she threw a hissy fit: destroyed the tapes of all the movies I'd made with Elise, scratched the glass coffee table with her stilettos, threw wine on the antique French loveseat. I shudder to think what she would have done to the Lamborghini; luckily, I hadn't bought it back from Morty just yet.

She even took a swing at me. Her bony knuckles landed pretty hard across the side of my mouth. Emaciated, psychotic bitch! Through a mouthful of blood, I threatened to call the cops on her. The thought of a ruined reputation sobered her up, and she ran out. I haven't seen her since.

I spat a couple teeth into the kitchen sink, cursing her out, trying not to cry just from the physical pain. My dignity was hanging by a thread. Shedding any tears- even over a swollen jaw- would have been just the thing to lop it right off.

But then I remember stepping back from my self-pity, and thinking: _What must it be like to deal with that- and worse- day in and day out? Only your attacker doesn't believe you when you say you'll call the cops? Only you're not the one who brings home the bacon, who owns the apartment, who's six inches taller and a hell of a lot stronger?_

So that's how I ended up here. Wondering one moment if there's any way I can convey my sympathy and respect to the women around me, without coming off as a complete jerk simply by virtue of being male; wondering the next moment if I really do need to beef up my gym routine and start dyeing my hair…

I notice Elise and her friends watching me. They're just a few tables away, though in these crowds, it might as well be miles. Brenda smiles and waves. Annie lectures Elise and Brenda, telling them they should ignore me. (I don't need to hear them to know this.) Then Elise gets up- confident, regal Elise- and glides towards me.

My heart starts beating faster. Okay, so I may have put on a few pounds since we last saw each other in person, but not all of us guys can age like Sean Connery. I wore black on purpose; it's supposed to be slimming… As for the gray hairs, the lines on my face, the lack of young trophy-girlfriend… I have no way of hiding any of _that_. Will she notice? Will she care? Will she rub it in my face? I can't help but think she has a right to.

Elise may have gained a little weight these past two years, too- but in all the right places for a woman. She has a few fine lines now, but her complexion is much more radiant since she quit smoking. She could be single, for all I know. But if she is, it's certainly by choice- you know, the whole "sisters are doin it for themselves" empowerment routine. She sashays over in a dark purple, velvet gown. "Hello, Bill," she purrs.

"Hi, Lisie." I'm nervous, not sure whether her sultriness is genuine or a trap. As for me, I go with honesty: "You look… good."

"You too." She slips into the chair beside me. Her hair is piled up in a sleek bun, natural blonde shimmering with the earliest hints of aged white. I'm struck with a fantasy of undoing that bun and running my hands through her hair. She toys with a napkin, and her slender fingers dance elegantly in the light of the centerpiece candles. Oh my _God_. I feel weak at the knees and I'm not even standing up! Why the hell did I divorce this woman?

"I saw your last play- yours and Phoebe's." I shake my head, amazed. "You were both… sensational." They played mother and daughter after all. Phoebe was supposed to be the star- and believe me, she gave a great performance- but Elise stole the show by giving the mother figure far more nuance, more depth of feeling, than what the script required. Since seeing that performance, I've had trouble getting Elise out of my head.

"Thanks. We were, weren't we?" she teases, eyes sparkling. "I saw your last movie. Big hit, huh?"

I shrug. "Yeah. But it's not my best."

"Well, they can't all be," she replies pragmatically. Then, switching topics, "Did you know Phoebe got her GED? I helped her prep for it. She just started classes at the New York Film Academy."

"Oh, that's great! Good for her." I really mean it. I haven't seen Phoebe since- well, you know… After that, things got too uncomfortable for us to even work together. But she's a good kid, and it's reassuring to know she's sort of come under Elise's wing.

We fall silent and admire the decorations, the paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling and the carnations on each table. The DJ puts on Billy Joel. _Don't go changin, to try to please me. You've never let me down before…_

"So." Elise clears her throat. "How are you, Bill?"

"Oh, just fine," I lie. "Couldn't be better."

"Really?" She fixes me with a serious stare. I notice she's wearing that pearl necklace again. She and her friends always wear them when they're giving interviews about the Center. By the front door, there's a framed picture of Cynthia herself… wearing those same pearls.

I admit, "I broke up with Shelly."

"Hm. Sorry to hear that." She doesn't sound all that sorry.

"Don't be," I sigh. "She was whacko."

"Well, _we _could've told you that two and a half years ago…" Elise shifts her gaze. I follow her, and see her backup girls are still watching us. I finally return Brenda's smile and wave; Annie goes red in the face. "You know what, man," Elise muses. "It's really not so bad, being a single old dinosaur. Maybe you should give it a try for a while. To clear your mind."

_Does that mean she's single? _She shifts in her chair, and I catch a glimpse of her long, slender legs from under her velvet gown… Elise is _not _a dinosaur, and feeling what the sight of her killer legs does to me, I don't think I am either…

"Wanna dance?" I ask.

She smiles. She must not have had any work done lately; her lips move more naturally than I remember. I'm glad. "Oh, sure. I mean, what the hell, right?"


	3. Love Is on the Way

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. (As much as I'd love to own either Bill OR Elise, as they are both adorbs.) Anyway, enjoy the story. :-)

**III. Love is On the Way**

_Elise_

This year, to cut costs, we got a DJ instead of a swing band. As Bill and I get up, they start playing Celine Dion. It's early 1998; it's inevitable. I'm just glad it's not "My Heart Will Go On" for the millionth time.

_Waking up alone, in a room that still reminds me. My heart has got to learn to forget…_

Bill draws me close, and I marvel at the softness of his sweater. I shouldn't be surprised. This is the man who, for six months out of the year, wears light sweaters rather than dress shirts under his suit jackets. He's always had a talent for looking sexy without sacrificing comfort- something that had me insanely jealous in the years when I was always "getting work done."

_Starting on my own. With every breath, I'm getting stronger. This is not the time for regret…_

He smiles down at me. Oh, how I've missed that warm look in his eyes. Is it weird that I like seeing up-close how his smile lines have gotten a little deeper? I'm just glad to know that time marches on for the both of us.

_Cause I don't need to hang on to heartbreak, when there's so much of life left to live…_

We grow more comfortable in each other's arms, and draw closer still. I smell his expensive aftershave and cologne. He started off with both his hands politely around my back; but now one hand slides down towards my waist. My hands slide up from his shoulders, and I gently cup his face.

_Love is on the way, on wings of angels. I know it's true. I feel it coming through._

Morty and Brenda waltz past us. "You two kids having fun?" Brenda teases. Morty asks Bill how the Lamborghini's doing. Bill doesn't answer; he's too intent on me. He has that line right above his eyebrows again; his mouth is slightly ajar; his deep brown eyes are patient, trusting. I know this expression of his very well, and I know exactly what to do. I lightly play with his glasses, then move my hands up and back, through his salt-and-pepper curls.

_Love is on the way. Time's turning the pages. I don't know when, but love will find me again._

We close our eyes, lean in and kiss. It feels so familiar, like we did this yesterday. But I've longed for him for years… I can tell he's been longing for me, too, and the thought makes my heart start pounding in my ears.

We go deeper. My tongue runs over a gap among his molars. Bill's never been missing any teeth before… Slowly, I pull back. When I can speak again, I whisper, "What happened?"

"Guess I need a little work done," he jokes, but his voice is deep and brusque. The line between his eyebrows deepens, from concentration to upset. Something tells me he didn't just have a cavity removed. _She was whacko, _he said about Shelly…

Why _did _he give double to the Center last month?

I brush a hand against his cheek again- gently. Very gently. "I'm so sorry, babe."

I lean my head against his shoulder. He murmurs in satisfaction as he lightly rests his chin on top of my head. Nearly three years since our divorce and we still fit together like puzzle pieces. For the rest of the song, we just stand and sway together. I don't really know where this is going. I'm not exactly ready to call it a "reconciliation," but I know we're headed for _something _good.

_I don't know when. But love will find me again…_


	4. You've Got a Lotta Neeerve

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. Enjoy the story. :-)

**IV. You've Got a Lotta Neeerve**

_Bill (Thursday, March 12, 1998)_

I have to wonder: would you call it a one-night stand if you were once married to the person for seventeen years?

Oh, well. I guess it doesn't matter, seeing as we don't get there. Not even close. After shuffling around the dance floor for a few songs like a couple of nervous co-eds, we sit back down and make small-talk, flirt a little. One moment, it's sweet and natural; the next moment we're as awkward as strangers. Soon the party starts winding down. I decide to get going, and Elise hangs back to help her friends clean up. Both frantically trying to puzzle out the other's motives, we put on our best smiles as we part ways outside the Center entrance.

"Maybe we could, you know, meet up for lunch sometime?" she suggests, and my heart leaps at the hope. She wasn't just being polite; she doesn't find me repulsive!

"Um, sure! Wait… How can I reach you?" Elise could still find me as easily as if we split up yesterday, but I don't know her new weekly routine. And the only contact info I have for her is the address where I send the checks.

She winks and heads back inside, but not before slipping me a business card. It's pink… and scented. Interesting.

_Elise Elliot_

_Stress Relief through Buddhist Meditation & Yoga_

_The Cynthia Swann Griffin Crisis Center for Women_

_Tue./Thur. 11am-12pm_

_555-431-1015_

I move to a spot just beyond the crowds, the spotlights and the red carpet, (yes, they actually have a red carpet,) and ponder what this could mean. Does Elise expect me to show up at a yoga class full of battered women? Besides the obvious problem with that scenario, there's the fact that I'm an agnostic for whom "stress relief" is pronounced "Starbucks" or "Barolo." (Not both at the same time, of course…) Maybe it was just the easiest way to give me her number? Or maybe she's letting me know when and where to meet her for lunch? After all, the classes are done at noon.

For a few days, I replay every moment of our evening together. I wait to hear from her- hoping, dreading, fantasizing- and I argue with myself over whether I should call her up. That Thursday, midmorning, my real estate agent leaves me a message with the perfect excuse to contact Elise. I could just as easily call, but instead I decide to take a little walk down to the Center.

It's a nice day, for March in Manhattan. A cold wind kicks up off the Hudson every once in awhile, but the sun is shining and the humidity's down. The crowds at the crosswalks are becoming more colorful: fewer overcoats, more college sweatshirts and tacky windbreakers. The spindly black treescape of Central Park is obscured in a haze of budding light green.

I've just begun to cut across the park when Brenda appears from behind a hot dog stand, waving frantically. "Hey! Bill!"

"Oh hi, Brenda." She's in bright orange jogging sweats and has a small, heavy-looking canvas bag slung on her shoulder. "What're you up to?"

"I rollerblade in the park with Morty on his lunch break," she reports. "So. Where are _you _going?"

"To the Center," I answer evenly.

"Cynthia's center? For what?"

"To talk to Elise." Honestly, I find Brenda a little abrasive. Her last question sounded like an interrogation. I shove my hands in my pockets and quicken my walking pace. Brenda's about a foot shorter than me; she'll have to speed-walk if she wants to keep up.

"Oh yeah?" she chirps. I manage to dodge some Rastas lazily blocking the footpath. Brenda falls behind as she maneuvers through them, then bustles her way back to my side. "What're you two kids gonna talk about?"

I'm tempted to tell her it's none of her business. Instead, with my expression blank, I reply, "Nothing interesting. Real estate."

"Oh, _okay._" She blinks up at me with an exaggerated smile. "Just gonna talk about boring, neutral, _real estate_." She stops and plants her hands on her hips. Her voice drops an octave and she mutters, "Does anyone ever fall for that?"

I stop and face her. "For what?"

"You know." She glowers up at me through her heavy mascara. "This whole routine of showing up outta nowhere at some party; sitting in the corner looking like a big, sad teddy bear until your ex feels sorry enough to come talk to ya; playing tongue hockey with her on the dance floor; leaving her hanging for five days; and then showing up at her office just to talk _business?_"

I'm speechless. Brenda thinks _I'm _the one who stood up _Elise? _And that I did it on purpose? What does Elise think about all this? …And what inspired this 'teddy bear' comparison, anyway?

"Look, Bill. I am a woman of peace." Brenda folds her hands before her and closes her eyes. Her campy expression of Zen passes, and she snaps: "But in my world, peace starts with _my friends' peace of mind!_"

She juts an accusing finger right into my cashmere scarf. I instinctively step back, and almost crash into a Chinese food delivery guy biking past us.

"You've got a lotta neeerve," she growls, "tryin to mess with Elise's head! I'd watch myself if I were you."

A part of me admires Brenda's moxy, but I'm not about to be intimidated by some middle-aged philanthropist/interior decorator. Especially not when I'm innocent of her accusations. I cross my arms and give her a low growl of my own: "Oh yeah? _Or what?_"

"Bren! You coming, hon?" We turn and see Morty, sitting on a bench some fifteen feet away, untying his shoes. We both smile and wave. "Hey, Bill! How's the Lamborghini doin?"

"Just great, Morty," I reply, genially. Then I return to squaring off with his wife. "What're you gonna do?" I mutter. "Tell me if I break Elise's heart again, your Uncle Carmine's gonna come break my legs?"

Her eyes go wide; her voice turns saccharine sweet again, mocking saintliness. "Oh, no, Bill. Like I told you, I'm a woman of peace! I would _never_ cause any harm to come to your person."

As she heads off, she looks back over her shoulder with a wicked grin, and that's when she drops the bomb:

"Your _car_, on the other hand…"

Damn. She's right. I'd better watch myself.


	5. Scenes From a Korean Restaurant, Part I

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it.

**A/N:** I think the first three chapters of this story would've made a cute stand-alone ficlet. However, since I have some fun ideas to continue the story, (and no other fanfic projects up my sleeve right now,) we'll just see where this goes. :-) Since there's no First Wives' Club section on fanfic, I don't expect this story to garner a ton of attention. But I am enjoying the writing, and pleased to know at least a few people are enjoying the reading. Love you all!

Also, if you read this chapter on or before August 19 and are rereading, you'll notice the second half of the chapter disappeared. :-D I moved that scene (which, by the way, is _not _at the restaurant and thus didn't really fit the title,) to Sunday night in order to break up two chapters I have planned for Bill on that day. I'm aiming for alternating narration on my chapters, as well as a word count under 2,000 for each one.

**V. Scenes from a Korean Restaurant, Part I**

_Elise_

Okay. I get it. This whole "will we/won't we reconcile" deal is uncharted territory for both of us. It wasn't right for me to complain to Brenda and Annie yesterday about Bill not calling. There's no rule saying that _I _couldn't be the one to call _him_…

But then he shows up out of the blue after my yoga class on Thursday. I find him sitting in the reception area reading an outdated _Newsweek, _calm as you please. Meanwhile, I'm a total mess. I'm wearing flip-flops, stretchy pants, a pit-stained tank top, and my hair pulled back in a disastrous ponytail. Bill gives me a lopsided half-smile. I know this look of his well, and it has two possible meanings: either _You look sexy _or _Ha! I have one-up on __you__! _I'm not sure which one applies right now.

My tank-top feels flimsy and low cut. I cross my arms over my chest. "Uh… hi. What're you…?"

"My real estate agent called. I need to run something by you, so I thought we could do lunch?" His grin widens. Self-satisfied bastard.

"If you've got time to wait for me to get dressed…" I shrug.

"Sure, no problem."

Ten minutes later we walk out onto Bond Street, both in jeans and turtlenecks. We used to have a favorite old Italian place in this part of town, and Bill asks me if it's still there. Just then, some Columbia co-ed cruises by in a New Beetle, blaring Celine Dion's "Treat Her Like A Lady."

Empowered by the music, I hatch a devious plan- a little harmless revenge for Bill's smugness. You see, Bill has always been a man of sophisticated tastes- but only once you nudge him past his creature-of-habit tendencies. He's especially reluctant about new foods. Our favorite old Italian place? It's still there. But last year, it became my favorite new Korean place.

_Spicy _Korean.

"Oh, yeah, the restaurant's still there," I answer cryptically. "Let's go."

The fresco of Rome has been sponge-painted over in mint green. The aromas of garlic and tomatoes that once wafted out of the kitchen have been replaced with whiffs of soy sauce, ginger, and boiling cabbage. Bill takes it all in, and scowls at the giant fish tank full of potential entrees. "Very _funny, _Elise."

I wouldn't put it past him to demand on the spot that we go somewhere else. But instead he plays it cool and we get a booth near the kitchen. I go for oyster mae un tang. Bill orders noodles in black bean sauce, the tamest thing on the menu besides the fortune cookies.

"So, how do you like theater?" he asks.

That's a suspicious question, coming from him. "I love it. But you always said I shouldn't do theater…"

"Looks like I was wrong, judging by the reviews." He gives me that little crooked smile again. This time it's definitely _You look sexy. _"Besides, maybe I just said that to keep you all to myself."

I smile and giggle, all the while thinking, _Boy, he's laying it on thick. _But wait: it gets better. The waitress brings us an appetizer of kimchi- seasoned, boiled vegetables. They taste even spicier than they smell. "Wanna try?" I ask Bill. He accepts, and manages a few polite bites without complaint. _Somebody's _on his best behavior today.

We compare the pros and cons of the stage and the screen, catch up on mutual acquaintances' projects and plans, swap opinions of colleagues' recent work. Safe topics, nothing too deep. As we joke around some, it starts to feel a little like old times. Our main orders arrive and Bill asks about my plans for after my current play's run.

"I dunno yet. I've still got six weeks to figure that out. My agent should come up with something by then."

"Oh. Great." I can see that my answer surprises him. During our marriage, (especially in the later years,) I was always anxious to know what would be the next big thing. To make sure _I _was the next big thing.

"I'm too busy with work and the Center to worry about it," I explain. I rest my chin atop folded hands and smile at him. "So tell me more about your last movie, _Dangerous Inclinations_."

He looks down and twirls his noodles around his fork. "It was… okay."

"_Okay?_ Your first time as exec on a suspense flick, it's a box office hit, and it was just _okay_?" I tease.

"Ah, I can't complain. It's just… there was a certain magic that was missing. It felt like I was going through the motions." Bill's getting shy. Joking about him having an existentialist midlife crisis would be in poor taste right now. I change the subject:

"Wanna try this?" I lean forward, offering a spoonful of my mae un tang. A lone oyster floats among stringy greens. Bill pulls a face.

"No thanks. That veggie stuff was enough adventure for one day." He gets a mischievous look in his deep brown eyes. "You really want me to try it? You'll just have to invite me back again."

A casual "okay" pops out of my mouth. We both get self-conscious, sit up a little straighter in the plastic booth seats. I clear my throat. "Your birthday's on Monday."

"Don't remind me," he grumbles. Then, more upbeat: "Mom said she'd come up sometime over the weekend."

I smile to myself. _Of course _Dolores Mancini Atchison is driving up for her baby's forty-ninth birthday. Behind his white-as-Wonderbread last name, Bill's actually half Italian-American. He also happens to be an only child. Momma's Boy? You have no idea.

While I always have and always will adore Bill's mom, I'm not sure what her opinion is of me, since the divorce. So I dodge any discussion of the weekend. "Do you have lunch plans for Monday?"

"Not yet," he smiles.


	6. Mom

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. Enjoy the story!

**A/N:** Yes, Victor Garber fans, I gave Bill the same birthday (and age) as Victor. But not the same upbringing! :-D Also, "Cheez, wit" is how the locals (the die-hard locals, of which I am not one,) request a cheesesteak "with Cheez Wiz and onions."

**VI. Mom**

_Bill (Sunday, March 15, 1998)_

When people find out my mom's Italian-American and grew up in South Philly, I get all the stereotypical questions. Yes, she's kind of got that accent. No, it's not as thick as Rocky's. (I've got news for you; very few people from Philadelphia _actually _sound like Rocky.) Yes, she's a little on the heavy side. No, she's not under five feet tall- try 5'7". Yes, she's an amazing cook. No, she was not a housewife when I was a kid, and her world has never _completely_ revolved around me.

But yes, I guess you could say I'm a little bit of a "momma's boy."

Every year for my birthday, she makes the trek from my hometown of Downingtown, Pennsylvania, up to my Manhattan loft. It's two hours one way if you _don't _hit traffic, and she always comes bearing an embarrassing quantity of gifts.

Today's a drizzling, do-nothing Sunday, and the day before my actual birthday. My doorbell buzzes mid-afternoon. I answer and find Mom beaming up at me, her arms so full of gifts that we'll have to postpone the customary cheek kisses in greeting until she can unload things. "Happy birthday to the sweetest, smartest, handsomest almost forty-nine-year-old I know!"

"Aw, Mom, you really shouldn't have…" I help her with the parcels. Two large Boscov's bags, one from Ikea that practically needs its own zip code, some plain little paper bags from a Mom-and-Pop bookstore… I feel a twinge of guilt; I'm a millionaire for God's sake, and my mom still plans for my birthday like she's putting together a care package for Catholic Charities.

As it reading my mind, she shuffles into the kitchen, plops her wicker shoulder bag on the counter and begins rummaging through it. "Here, Mr. Bigshot Who Can Buy Himself Anything He Wants," she teases. "I thought of a gift that you'd _love, _but can't get for yourself up here." She proudly thrusts a long, tin foil cylinder into my arms. It's warm, smells incredible, and is dripping grease on the granite-topped island.

"You got me a cheesesteak for my birthday." I'm not even surprised. Although I'm impressed at the authenticity: Amoroso roll, "Cheez wit," with little grease-laden bits of fried peppers. This is no suburban pizza place fare. "Where's this from?"

"Pat's, in South Philly," she beams. I _knew_ it!

"Aw, Mom! If you were gonna go into the city, how come you didn't get me Geno's?" She knows I'm kidding. She ineffectually mimes like she's gonna slap me upside the head. I duck away, grinning.

"Just eat your cheesesteak, wiseguy. The line at Geno's was longer. Besides, they may be the originals, but Pat's was the first to put the Cheez on it."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." I dig in, and watch Mom's compulsory inspection of my habitat. She knows I have a perfectly competent housekeeper, and still she runs her hand over the top of the microwave and the cappuccino machine, checking for dust. She reaches up to open the cabinets, and suddenly she winces and clutches her shoulder. "Mom, come on. Sit down. Relax."

"I just wanna make sure you're eating well…" She lets me lead her over to the sofa. Mom is in decent health for her age, but her age happens to be seventy-eight. She moves to massage her shoulder and I see her hand is trembling. Her olive skin looks pale and translucent beneath the track lighting. She has obvious varicose veins.

"I'm fine, Mom. Why didn't you get Aunt Marie or somebody to keep you company on the ride?" I ask.

"Her whole family's busy today; her great-grandson's christening."

That hits me like a ton of bricks. Yet again one of my Ricci cousins, my childhood playmates at family reunions and Christmas parties, has acquired a _grandchild. _"Look, I think I should drive you home."

She recites the standard refusals, but with little conviction. I insist. Finally, she sighs, "A'ight, but eat your cheesesteak first."

"Okay. You want anything?"

"I'm not hungry if that's what you're askin. I ate on the way up." She kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up. "But if you're driving me home… How 'bout a glass of wine for my only baby's birthday?"

"Sure." She can be a real kick, my mom. I chuckle to myself as I skip over the usual Barolo and grab the Dom Pérignon at the back of the mini fridge. She deserves it. Though if she could tell the difference, she would tell me it's too extravagant.

"Honey, your apartment smells different," she comments. "Something's missing…"

"The stench of evil?" I quip as I sit on the ottoman, hand Mom her champagne and return to relishing my cheesesteak.

"That too." Mom replies without missing a beat. We talk on the phone on a weekly basis, so she already knows about my breakup with Shelly. "But there's something else. Did you quit smoking?"

"I did, yeah. New Year's resolution; so far so good."

She bolts upright and crushes me in a tight hug. It takes some fast moves for me to avoid getting Cheez Whiz on her floral sweater. "Good for you, Billy! Congratulations. Though I wish you'd told me earlier; it woulda shut them all up at Domino Nite."

Wonderful. Can't imagine what her crazy old friends have been saying about me _now._ "What? Why?"

"Well, your aunt Marie told everyone you looked a little chubby on your last _Entertainment Tonight _interview. The nerve a her, right? They woulda understood if they knew you were quitting."

I feel my face flush. "_Mo-_om! How'm I supposed to enjoy this now?" I gesture towards the sandwich.

She pats me on the shoulder, plants another kiss on my cheek and says, "Honey, you look good. Now eat your cheesesteak."

"Yes, Ma." Mom's an English teacher, a profession which has given her a keen sense of humor, both pedestrian and literary. She used to amuse my dad, (a Presbyterian who grew up among the cornfields outside Valley Forge,) by satirizing her own South Philly roots. Now, to make me laugh, she plays up her accent and lays down a parody of the classic "Momma's guilt-trip":

"I drove all the way down to South Philly for dat! You know there's gangs down dere now? And I took the Schuylkill in, too- do you know many _complete_ _morons_ drive on 'at highway dese days? I _risked my life_ to get dat sandwich for you! And you know why? Cawse I love you."

"I love you too, Ma."

"Now eat your cheesesteak."

We talk about my work, and about Mom's "kids" at the high school. We talk about Dad and how we miss his hokey old stories. We wonder what he'd think of the rumors that the Eagles are gonna fire yet another head coach.

By the time I finish eating, Mom is nodding off on the couch. I let her rest. I flop onto my bed with a script I've been meaning to read all weekend.

The writer's a complete unknown who got past my agent with an impressive cover letter. I figure I'll give him five pages to catch my attention; I'm hooked by the end of page two. It's a legal drama, a genre I've always enjoyed watching, tried and failed to write when I was young, and have never produced. Why the writer sent this to _me_, I don't know. But as the story unfolds before me, I know that I want to do this movie. The research is so thorough, I have to wonder what this kid's day job is. The dialogue is superb: not a word wasted, tight but not terse.

It's the female lead who really keeps me reading, though: Angie, the district attorney assigned to the murder case at the center of the story. The writer uses the old "DA with skeletons in her closet ends up overly-involved" plot, but with enough twists to make it interesting. Angie's strong, noble-minded, and has a heartrending backstory. She's also witty and seductive; the scenes between her and her love interest explode off the page. The script notes specifically that she is "a mature beauty- at least 35." I can't help but think that Elise would be perfect for the role.

I get so absorbed that I cease to hear Mom's train-engine snoring, or the patter of rain on the fire escape. The gray beyond the windows dims without me noticing. Mom's awake when I finish reading. It's almost six. We pull on our raincoats and take the elevator downstairs.

"You sure it's no trouble to take me home, sweetie?" she asks plaintively.

Mom's Buick Park Avenue awaits us on its namesake. My parents never took me up on offers to buy them a house (or three) anywhere in the world once Elise and I made it big, but I'm glad they let me treat them to nice cars. Mom picked the Park Avenue because it's inconspicuous enough in the teachers' parking lot; it will never compare to my Lambo for raw power, or bragging rights. Still, it's a well-built V8, elegant and sturdy. I haven't driven outside the city in awhile… Feeling boyishly eager for the turnpike, I reassure her: "It's no trouble at all, Mom."


	7. Can I Have Both?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it.

**A/N:** Until August 19, much of this chapter's content (except the beginning) was included on Thursday evening, as the second half of chapter 5, "Scenes From a Korean Restaurant, Part I." I've changed it to a separate chapter on Sunday in order to keep to a style of short, one-scene chapters, with the narrators alternating between each chapter.

**VII. Can I Have Both?**

_Elise_

We don't have a real gym at the Center, just a rec room. But my old treadmill and stair climber are still in the back office. I prefer working out here over the gym or the park; this way I don't have to worry about the paparazzi. I can just run and climb and clear my head. A phone call I've been dreading, but need to do tomorrow to set up a Center fundraiser, shrinks from mountain back down to molehill. Some backstage drama at the theater seems to fall off my shoulders. Next I expect I'll stop dwelling on my lunch date with Bill tomorrow…

Except that totally doesn't happen.

I'm about to hop off the treadmill and cool down with some yoga, when Annie tiptoes in. "Mom's at a church potluck and Chris is on a date," she explains. "So I thought I'd hang out here, if that's okay."

"Sure," I reply. Annie perches on the arm of a bright pink sofa next to our office bookshelf, thumbing through volumes on women's issues and family dynamics- all of which she's read before. She settles in with a heavily dog-eared Carol Gilligan. I stretch down onto my yoga mat, cross my legs and close my eyes. I attempt to meditate:

_Relax. Feel the stress of the day leaving your body. Thank your body for all it does for you. Learn to tend to your body's needs; listen for your body to tell you its needs._

_I miss Bill!_

_Shut up, body. Relax and open your mind. Think of a peaceful place; think of where you want to be right now... But not the Korean restaurant! …Empty your mind. Don't think of the warmth in his eyes when he smiles… Don't think of his grayish-brown curls getting adorably mussed up in the March wind, dammit… Don't think of his big, strong hands around your waist last weekend oh God…_

"Elise, are you okay?"

Annie sounds concerned. I crack one eye open and give her a sideways glance. "I'm fine, sweetie. Why?"

"Well, you just…" She turns pink. "Never mind. I just hope I'm not distracting you."

"You're not. Although, I could use a distraction," I mutter.

"Okay then… Um, did I tell you that Chris wants us to get our computer here on the World Wide Web?"

"No." I push my folded palms up in a nice stretch, genuinely pleased. "That's great!"

"Isn't it? She's even offered to ask around at the university, see if they'll give us access to their search engines. Gosh, just imagine," she sighs happily. "The whole world's social science literature, at our fingertips!"

"Hm. Imagine the power." Brenda appears in the doorway, and bats her eyelashes at me. "So how was your _date?_" Before I can ask how she knew about that, she explains, "Saw your guy in the park Thursday morning."

"Who? Bill?" Annie's dismayed. "Oh, _Elise. _Don't tell me you're spending time with that man again! I'm so disappointed…"

"I know, I'm sorry, Annie. But he _is_ my ex." I hop up off the floor, indignant. "And he's not such a bad guy."

"So, what's up with the real estate you two had to talk about?" Brenda asks.

I'm a deer in the headlights. "The real estate…? Oh, right! Shit. We forgot." At this, Annie rolls her eyes, mouths _'forgot' _and makes air-quotes. I scramble for my planner, and write "Bill- real estate" on tomorrow. I twiddle nervously with the pen as my friends continue to grill me.

"So are you and Bill the Skirt-Chaser goin out again?"

"We're having a light lunch together tomorrow, if you _must _know," I answer through gritted teeth. "Gimme a break, Bren. It's his birthday, for God's sake."

"And doesn't he have lots of movie-producer friends to spend it with?" Annie gives me a meaningful look over her wire rims.

"Oh, he has friends, but he usually doesn't let them drag him out on his birthday."

"Why not?"

I sit on the edge of the 1980's, frosted-glass desk where our crazy plans all started, still twirling that pen. "He actually doesn't like being the center of attention."

Brenda snorts with mirthless laughter. "Yeah, right."

"No, I mean it." I find myself waving the pen as I talk. The way it balances between my fingers is familiar, comforting. "He likes being a big name in the industry, and having lots of nice stuff. But he's never enjoyed having a whole room full of people just _fawning_ over him."

"Well why does he need a whole room when he can just bask in the attention of one woman at a time?" Brenda grumbles. She and Annie share a look.

"That's enough, you two. For your information, the only woman Bill ever cheated on me with was Phoebe."

Annie's interrogation is gentler than Brenda's, more therapist-like: "How do you know that, Elise? Because he told you so?"

Feeling cornered, I fall back on force of habit. I take the long, thin object gently balanced in my right hand, and lift it towards my mouth. Then I realize I'm about to try and smoke a PaperMate. I smack the pen down on the desk.

"Elise, you've got everything going for you. And from what you've told us, Bill's newly single and kind of confused right now." Annie bites her lip and avoids my hurt stare. A trace of the timid housewife from 1995 emerges; her tone becomes hedging and whiny. "Look, I'm sorry, I just… I don't see how this will be good for you. Even if you're right about Bill being faithful-"

"Except for with Phoebe!"

"Yes, Brenda, _except for with Phoebe_… Well, there's still the fact that you took care of him, coddled him, for your entire marriage…" Annie sighs and lets her hands fall heavily against her gaucho pants. She blinks up at me. "Do you really want to go back to that?"

I sigh deeply. "No…"

"Well then, I think that maybe, you know… You should figure out… What exactly are you two doing, here?"

Good question. I have no clue. There were moments at lunch today, and on Saturday night, that were just flirty, innocent fun. Nice and simple, right? Except nothing is truly simple when your history as a couple spans back to the Carter administration.

And Annie's right; I do have a tendency to coddle Bill. Right now, for instance, I want to break him out of his creativity block, make sure he enjoys his birthday, comfort him over whatever the heck really happened to that tooth… But if I do all of these things, he might start hoping for a full reconciliation. I don't think I want that. At least, not if it means going back to the way we were the last few years of our marriage.

Our careers had merged to the point that the critics labeled it an "Elliot/Atchison" effort if one of us so much as sneezed. That kind of intertwining has a dangerous effect on a couple's private life, too. We each habitually blamed the other for our own unhappiness. Just thinking back on it makes me feel trapped… and thirsty.

I still love Bill, but I love the life I have now, too. I can do what I want, and help others, all with courage and a clear head.

The question is, can I have both?


	8. If You Really Want Her Back

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. Enjoy the story!

**A/N:** Celine Dion lyrics are from the song "Us," which (like every other song of hers mentioned in this fic) is from the album "Let's Talk About Love." Of course I don't own those, either; no plagiarism intended.

**VIII. If You Really Want Her Back**

_Bill (Monday, March 16, 1998)_

We stop for a nice birthday dinner near Allentown, and by the time I get Mom home, it's too late for Amtrak. Mom is quick to point out I have a nicely made bed and a change of clothes waiting in my old room upstairs, so I stay the night, waking up early in hopes of catching the first train back up to the city. I expect to fumble for coffee in a twilit kitchen before calling a cab. Instead a fresh cup of coffee and a huge ceramic plate with scrambled eggs, scrapple, and toast await me on the kitchen counter. Courtesy of Mom, of course. She pats me on the shoulder as I pull up a stool.

"Mom, it's 6 AM. What are you doing?"

"Making you a birthday breakfast- what's it look like I'm doing?" She rummages through the pantry and retrieves a box of Entenmann's coffee cake. "How big a piece do you want?"

"I'll pass," I sigh.

"You sure?" she squeaks in skepticism, planting her hands on her hips. She's already dressed for work, beneath an apron Dad got her for Christmas one year. It bears a kitschy declaration: NEVER TRUST A SKINNY COOK.

"_Yes._" Mom rolls her eyes at my refusal, before giving me a good-natured pinch on the cheek. I swear, whenever I'm back in this house, it's like I'm ten years old again. "Look, I really appreciate all this, Mom, but I should call a cab…"

She grabs a plate of food for herself and heads for the dining room table; I follow her. She's matter-of-fact: "Don't worry about it, sweetie. I'll drive you to the train station on my way to work."

"You sure? I need to get going pretty soon…"

"You're not missing some big important morning meeting cause of me, are ya? I told you I could drive myself home."

"No, it's okay. I just need to be back for lunch." Mom arches her eyebrows in surprise, waiting for an explanation. "I'm meeting Elise."

"Elise? _Your _Elise?" Mom gasps. "_You're getting back together! _Oh, honey, you've come to your senses, I'm so happy!"

"It's _just lunch_, Mom." I put up a hand in warning. "Don't get your hopes up, okay?"

As if! She's practically glowing as she tells me, "You know, I'm glad you're finally doing something about this. I don't mean to criticize, but the divorce was mostly your fault…"

I wince. She's probably right. Sure, Elise was the one who was unraveling. But I was the one who cheated; I was the one who filed. I find myself staring out the sliding glass doors, over the weather-worn porch and into the cool gray morning. I gulp some coffee and fight an urge to crawl back into bed. Mom's unusually quiet; I don't know if she's still reveling in the thought of regaining her beloved daughter-in-law, or if she's just not fully awake yet.

I offer to help Mom clean up from breakfast and she insists I don't. Then I offer to drive us to the train station and she agrees, so we're 1 for 1 so far today. Mom's shivering in her knit sweater as we head off. I turn on the heater but it takes forever to warm the whole car; she fumbles through the controls, looking for the heated seat button. That's the problem with these luxury sedans: disconcertingly roomy, and with enough toggles and buttons to launch a space shuttle. I prefer my Lambo's simplicity.

When we play Chinese fire drill at the train station, Mom steals another tight hug from me. "Billy, can you promise me something?"

"Sure."

She pulls back and holds me at arm's length, and tells me bluntly: "You and Elise already broke each other's hearts once. Just don't toy with her, okay? Only go after her if you really want her back."

I nod. "Okay. Now you have to promise me something."

"Anything, sweetie."

"Please, don't come up to New York by yourself again. I don't wanna have to worry about you."

Mom grumbles a little, but I think deep-down she's flattered that I care. "Well okay…" She gives me a kiss on the cheek goodbye. "I promise."

The train's business class compartment is quiet and empty; I doze off. I wake up at 30th Street Station when a brunette in a Rutgers sweatshirt plops unceremoniously into the seat nearest mine. _She's cute, _I observe, then feel a little old and creepy for noticing. My new neighbor is listening to Celine Dion on a Walkman. She has the volume up, and on crappy headphones, so now _I'm _listening to Celine Dion.

_Once we were one mind_

_Drifting in one time_

_And ever true_

_We were friends_

_But something is gone from my_

_Picture of this life_

_If we could only see_

_Like we did before_

_We became imprisoned_

_Can I reopen the door?_

God, I miss Elise.

I miss the Elise of the seventies: wide-eyed, sun-kissed California beauty, lithe and graceful. By day she was a sweetheart of the screen, just starting to come into her own as a sex symbol. By evening she was my script editor, eager with her praise, tactful with her many suggestions for improvement. And by night, well…

I miss the Elise of the eighties: glamorous, accomplished, self-assured. We both became masters of our craft in that decade. Any rare moment of doubt from one, and the other would confidently assert: _This is gonna be a big hit, just wait… You think so?... Oh, baby, you know it!... _And we were always right; it was a charmed decade, our best years. We really _knew_ each other then. We could be standing on opposite ends of a crowded room and have an entire conversation, just by our facial expressions. Yet our familiarity never felt worn-out; we had our ways of keeping things spicy…

I don't miss the Elise of the early nineties. But I'd like to get to know the Elise of today. She has a peaceful glow about her. It reminds me of before… Before she started drinking too much, before she got all that stupid work done. It reminds me of the days when she was so radiant, so lovely, that basking in her reflected glory never felt beneath me. I wonder what her secret is. I'd gladly hang around her until she'd let me know.

The arrival at Penn Station sneaks up on me. I emerge into Manhattan in a daze, and see the city's turning green. And it's not just the plastic shamrocks adorning the coffee place windows and dangling from newsstand umbrellas. Real plant life springs from every window box and sidewalk crack. The sky is liquid blue, the sunlight a little too warm for my sweater. Spring has sprung in New York.

And I walk home fighting an urge to shout for all to hear: _I __do__ really want her back!_


	9. Scenes From a Korean Restaurant, Part II

**Disclaimer: **I don't own The First Wives' Club or anyone in it. Enjoy the story!

**IX. Scenes from a Korean Restaurant, Part II**

_Elise_

Yesterday was rainy but warm; today, the city smells like fresh earth and new life. The weatherman said it might hit seventy. Barring a freak snowstorm, spring is here to stay. The restaurant has set up al fresco seating on the sidewalk. Bill and I get a table near the street. He hums a bar of Billy Joel, the opening of "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." "_A bottle of white, a bottle of red…_" Then he catches my eye, and bites his lip nervously. "Sorry."

"That's okay." I shake my head and smile.

Bill shouldn't have to tiptoe around me; it's been nearly two years since I last had a drink, not two _days. _But I couldn't get mad at him for that apology if I tried. He knows I don't need anybody's protection, and yet he's always had his chivalrous side with me. Which I actually find very sexy.

"So, how's your mom?" I ask.

"Same as always. Same house, same teaching job, same… mothering tendencies." We share a knowing grin. "She's still crazy about you, by the way."

"Is she?" I'm genuinely surprised. "The divorce didn't convince her that I'm Satan?" I tease.

"No, of course not." Bill clears his throat, changes the subject. "So, how'd you get into this yoga stuff?"

"Well, my mentor in A.A. turned me on to it, as a relaxation technique…" Bill lets me ramble about yoga for a little, about what it means to me and to the Center clients who take my course. "It's all about appreciating your own power, both body and mind, without being aggressive with that power. Too many women are taught not to love and care for their bodies, not to trust their minds. This is about reclaiming that. It's about healing, and growing."

"Wow." Bill seems impressed; he gives me a wide-eyed look over a sip of his Pepsi. "That's deep, Elise. Really. And it seems to be working for you. You're a lot less…"

"High-strung?"

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Well, yeah."

A waitress takes our orders. I get the mae un tang again and Bill orders "what she's having." We slip back into shop talk. He tells me about a script he's just received from some young screenwriter-hopeful. It's a legal drama, not Bill's usual style. He describes it with words like "intricate" and "understated." Just when I start to wonder if aliens have abducted my ex-husband and programmed a mature, selfless robot to take his place, he does mention that the female lead is supposed to be smoking hot. "But no younger than thirty-five; the script specifically calls for a _mature _beauty. Isn't that something?"

"Hm." I watch him slurp his spicy soup, each spoonful a little bigger and braver than the last. My, my, still on his best behavior… I think of Annie's caution to me last night. "Bill, what exactly are we doing here?"

He lowers his ceramic spoon and blinks up at me. That little line in his forehead makes an appearance. I wonder if he's hurt, or confused; I fight back an urge to apologize. Finally he speaks, his voice quiet and deep:

"Lisie, I know I really hurt you. With Phoebe, and the divorce. I'm sorry." He swallows nervously. He leans in close, hunching his broad shoulders beneath his casual, denim jacket. "But I miss you. I miss the magic of our good years. I'd like to spend some time together, see if we get that back."

He glances away self-consciously. There's no trace of the egotistical hotshot who once stood in his opulent office and sniped at me: _So I left you for another woman. Get over it. _No, this is the Bill I fell in love with in the seventies- humble, thoughtful and genuine.

"But I also don't want to hurt you again."

Bill's a big, strong guy physically. Financially and creatively, he's practically untouchable. But right now, with me, he's very vulnerable. _I'm not the only one whose hurts we should be careful about, _I realize. The thought cuts deep.

Many first wives would kill to hear their ex say what Bill's just said to me. And yet I don't know how to respond. Taxi horns, clinking ceramics, and pedestrian chatter expand to fill the momentary silence. I absently twirl my spoon until I can gather my wits.

"Okay. Well, a lunch date here and there can't hurt. Especially when I've got my friends to pick me up, if I need it."

Bill's somber expression breaks into a relieved smirk. "Yeah, and to keep me in line. That Brenda's a real kick, you know?"

I grin. "That's why we love her." The mention of Brenda reminds me. "Hey, didn't you have something to tell me on Thursday? About real estate?"

He nods dutifully. "Right. Our house in the Hamptons isn't getting offers- at least, not the ones we'd hope for. The agent thinks we should hire an interior decorator, just to redo the floors and the walls, boost the market value."

"Okay."

"You know anyone good?" he asks. Bill was never much for decorating. While we were married, I handpicked nearly all the items furnishing our several nice homes- his car being a conspicuous exception.

I think of the good interior decorators I know of in New York. One pretty lousy interior decorator also comes to mind… I don't know what comes over me then. Some subconscious urge to delay the sale of our summer home, one of the last unfulfilled terms of our divorce? Or is it just pure, juvenile rebellion?

"Have you heard of Duarto Feliz?"

"No," Bill frowns slightly. "But with a name that weird, he's gotta be good."

"Oh, he is," I purr. I'm lying through my caps. "I'll give him a call."

We finish our meal and pay, then walk together a few blocks. Bill holds my hand. It's cute, but I find myself blushing and looking away, still unsure how to react. He's being so damn noble. Part of me wants to just throw nobility out the window and throw myself at him. On the other hand, I'm still fighting an urge to run…

If Bill shares my uncertainty, he hides it well. Which is very possible; I know I look composed on the outside, too. We stop at the corner of Central Park. The place is teeming with college kids, back from spring break and reveling in a chance to "study" outside. I give Bill a quick hug. "Happy birthday, babe. Sorry I didn't get you anything."

"That's okay. This was enough of a gift."

We have one of our little silent conversations, all looks and gestures. Just like old times. It starts with me putting my hands on my hips and giving him the stinkeye. _Okay, buddy, that was a little __too__ noble._

He throws his hands up. His eyebrows go up as well, his eyes wide. _What? Come on, I'm being nice._

A playful shove, a little smirk. _I used to buy you priceless antiques for your birthday, man. Don't tell me going Dutch at a Korean place compares._

He sighs and rolls his eyes. _Alright, you win._ We both start giggling, and it ends in a polite little kiss on the lips. "Lunch again tomorrow?"

"Sure. I'll stop by your office after yoga."

As we part ways, I see a pair of juveniles- the girl wearing Abercrombie, the guy in a Simpsons t-shirt- nudge each other affectionately. The girl whispers a bit too loudly: "Aw, they know each other's every move, isn't that cute? That'll be us in fifty years."

_Excuse me? Try twenty or thirty years, you preschoolers._

I let it go, leave them behind. But I have to laugh when I hear the guy gasp behind my back: "Is that Elise Elliot?"


End file.
